


In the Dark

by charmed7293



Series: In the Dark [1]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, BlackIce Week, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Faustian Bargain, Hand Jobs, Kinda, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, My First Smut, and this whole thing is filled with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:42:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmed7293/pseuds/charmed7293
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being afraid of the dark is such a childish fear.  Forcing himself to grow out of it is for the best, really.  So when he sees a certain post on Facebook, he can't help but be intrigued: <i>As soon as you turn the lights off start masturbating. No monster wants to see that shit. While doing it, stare at the corner and whisper tenderly, “This is for you."</i>  Now this just might be an idea worth trying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of seven bits I'm writing for BlackIce Week on Tumblr. This is my first time writing anything vaguely smutty, so be gentle! Also, beta-ed by the wonderful [Hikari199111](http://hikari199111.tumblr.com). Go check her out on here and Tumblr!
> 
>  **Edit** : Finally managed to reread this without internally screaming, so I was able to make a few edits. Nothing big; mainly just SPAG. I also added a "dubious consent" tag, because even if it seems like consent later on in the story, it's really not due to manipulation.
> 
> All of the songs that are the chapter titles (and two additional songs) are now all on a playlist on 8Tracks. Listen to it while you read [here](http://8tracks.com/charmed7293/in-the-dark)!

_He has always been afraid of the dark._

It starts when he is young, when he feels like something watches him after he turns off the lights. He huddles under the sheets, staying awake for hours only to have terrifying nightmares when he falls asleep. The dark is a common enough fear for young children, so his parents simply buy him a nightlight and wait for him to grow out of it. Except that he never grows out of it. The night terrors continue and the shadows dance on the wall; the presence watches him, instilling deep terror in his mind whenever he can sense it.

He keeps the nightlight until he’s thirteen, when he tells himself it’s all in his head and it’s time to stop being scared of his own room. Figuring the best way to cure his fear is complete immersion, he unplugs the nightlight before bed. He doesn’t sleep at all that first night. Perhaps the nightlight did keep that presence at bay because now it is all around him, the darkness is surrounding him, suffocating him, and he can’t even bring himself to close his eyes.

He has to force himself to do without the nightlight the next night, and the next, and the next. It takes weeks, but it starts to get better; he beings to feel safe falling asleep.

As time goes on, his fear diminishes. The presence that watches him appears less frequently, as if it has gotten bored. Those nights when it does return are often the most intense, but he is able to cope because of the span between their occurrences. For five years, his nights fall into a pattern of quiet, deep sleeps interspersed with absolute terrors and he accepts this as something with which he has to deal.

He’s eighteen when a post on Facebook catches his attention. Normally, he just scrolls past things his friends share, but this one gives him pause: _As soon as you turn the lights off start masturbating. No monster wants to see that shit. While doing it, stare at the corner and whisper tenderly, “This is for you.”_ Oh.

It’s just supposed to be a funny thing – and, on the surface, it is – but to Jack it could be the answer to dispelling his fears. Just because they have gotten easier to manage does not mean he wants to continue living with them. He’s willing to attempt anything to be rid of his fear and the presence. What does he have to lose by doing this? If there is something there this will scare it off; if there isn’t anything there then he’s just jacking off. As a teenage boy, masturbation is a normal occurrence, so that’s not a problem, though he’s used to doing it with the lights on – even that is something he’s too afraid to do in the dark.

It’s with that thought in his mind and apprehension in his heart that he turns off the lamp next to his bed, plunging his room into darkness. As he draws his hand back from the switch, he grabs the box of tissues sitting on the nightstand to place nearby on the bed. He sits against the headboard in the dark for several minutes, mentally talking himself into following through with his plan. He is by no means embarrassed by his own body, but the possibility that the presence will be watching makes him hesitate. He tells himself this is something he has to do; it will reassure him that there really isn’t anything to fear. He mulls it over for a while, debating with himself.

Caught up in his musings, he starts to nod off, slumping down against the headboard. A familiar fear invades his mind, tendrils of it wrapping around his brain and pressing in . . .

He jerks to full consciousness. That’s definitely the presence. The fear isn’t as overwhelming as it was a few seconds ago, but he can still feel it lurking in the background. Pushing himself up, he makes up his mind.

He slips his boxers down his legs and leaves them near the end of the bed. His eyes stare blindly into the darkness of his room as he spits on his palm and takes his cock in his hand. As he starts to stroke himself, he searches the inky black in front of his eyes for a hint of something, anything, but the dark is impenetrable. He still feels the deep rooted fear and it distracts him from completely enjoying the movement of his hand. Trying to focus on that, he drops his head back, whispering, “This is for you.”

He holds his breath, waiting for something to happen, for the shadows to dissipate, for some indication of movement, but there is nothing. His exhale of relief turns into a quiet hum of pleasure as his body finally relaxes and he is able to enjoy the stroking heat of his hand on his half-hard cock.

The assuagement quickly dissipates as a hand wraps over his own on his length. He goes entirely still and his stomach drops out. Then his flight instinct kicks in and he strains to get away, but he’s completely paralyzed. A hot breath ghosts over his cheek and a smooth voice whispers directly into his ear, “Oh, this is for me, is it? Well then, I’ll just help myself.”

Panic and terror shoot through his system and his eyes widen to a point that’s almost painful. He tries to scream, to call out, to anything, but he can’t make a sound, not even a whimper of fear.

“I couldn’t allow any of that, now could I?” the voice speaks again. Another hand is now at his neck, the fingertips lightly tracing down his windpipe, sending spikes of panic lancing through him, before slipping around it in a firm grip, not quite cutting off air, but threatening to.

He wants to bring his arms up and defend himself, but the only part of his body he can move are his eyes, which frantically search for some sign of another being. He sees nothing; the room is so dark he can barely make out the pale glow of his legs. His arm, reaching between them, is smudged with shadow, starting just below his elbow and getting darker closer to his wrist before being completely consumed. He can’t even perceive the hand he knows covers his own. It begins to move faster, squeezing each time it reaches the base of his cock. His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps filled with fear and pleasure. With every downward stroke, the hold on his throat tightens minutely and his breathing becomes thinner and thinner, before one final clench cuts it off completely.

“I imagine you would make the most beautiful noises for me.” Lips are moving right against his ear and he tries to focus on that sensation, anything but the hand on his cock. “Mmmm, but you would be so loud you would wake the others up and I know you wouldn’t want to disturb them for something as trivial as your fear of the dark. Because that’s what they said, isn’t it? There’s nothing there, nothing to be afraid of. But you and I know that’s not true. You were right to fear the dark, to fear me. Just look at what happened when you tried to conquer it.”

A burning tongue traces the shell of his ear, but he barely feels it. Remaining conscious is a struggle. If he could see anything other than darkness, he’s sure there would be black spots blotting his vision. As if sensing his imminent decent into unconsciousness, the grip on his throat lets up slightly, allowing just enough air to stave it off, though he still needs more, so much more. The next upward stroke of the hand brings fingers sliding over his head and the breath caught in his throat now has nothing to do with the pressure against it. The soft, sinister chuckle that follows sends shivers down his spine.

“You’re so desperate. Tell me how much you want it.”

There’s nothing he can do in response to that statement. He wants to get away, but instincts demand he thrust his hips up and, ultimately, he can do nothing. It’s frustrating in every way he can imagine. The hand pulls away, taking his with it, and places his arm by his side. If he was able to make any sound, he isn’t sure if it would be a groan of frustration or relief. The touch returns, but it’s too light, just barely skimming up and down his length. The grip on his throat returns to full tightness before he has a chance to draw an adequate breath.

He’s aware of only those teasing fingertips, the sensations they create heightened by his lack of air and he feels closer than ever, but he needs more. More air, more touch, just more. He keeps trying to lift his arms, but they won’t move and he isn’t sure what he would do even if they did; the presence is shadow, intangible, not something he can fight off and force to release him.

Blunt nails scrape along his length, just as lightly as the fingertips, but causing a different sensation altogether. He squeezes his eyes shut and a tear slips down the side of his face. That burning tongue catches it near his jaw and follows the trail back to the corner of his eye, where lips press a kiss. Confusion sings through his muddled thoughts, but everything is quickly scattered when a hot palm covers his head. His whole body shudders and another tear escapes. It is also kissed away as the palm smears through the pre-come leaking from the tip. The now-slicked hand returns to stroking him, finally giving him the contact he needs. He’s already close and it isn’t long before he’s falling over the edge. He still can’t breathe, can’t move, can’t make a sound, but he’s never come harder before in his life.

The pressure disappears from his throat and he takes a gasp of air; his head spins from the sudden rush of oxygen. Lips seal over his mouth, preventing him from drawing another breath. His lungs cry out for more and he unconsciously inhales through his nose. Relief floods through him; he can breathe!

He forgets that he can as soon as a tongue invades his mouth. He becomes aware of the hand that was stroking him now gripping his hip and the other running through his hair. Opening his eyes, he still can’t see through the blackness, but the intensity of the dark slowly beings to melt away as he feels the hands relinquish their hold. The mouth is the last to move away and he wants to cry out; he doesn’t want to be alone in the darkness, without even the shadows to comfort him. A different blackness bleeds into his vision and he feels his consciousness slipping. The voice is back near his ear with a soft chuckle. “Go to sleep for now. I’ll be back soon.”

He loses all awareness

and gasps awake.


	2. In Your Room

Morning light seeps through the window. He lies on top of the covers, boxers on, all traces of last night's encounter gone. It leaves him to wonder if it was all just a nightmare. Once he stops shaking, he gets up and digs his nightlight out from the back of the closet. Despite not using it for years, he's kept it, just in case, and now he's so very relieved he did. Thankfully, the bulb still works when he plugs it in and nothing out of the ordinary occurs for the next couple of nights as long as it is plugged in and protecting him.

He's still not sure if it was a nightmare or dream – or which to call it – or if it actually happened. After thinking about it, he decides it doesn't matter because it was extremely vivid and terrifying and, as such, he isn't exactly looking forward to it happening again.

He's given five days of respite with his nightlight before the thunder storm, before lightning strikes a tree and takes out of the power lines. No power means no nightlight, which means . . . he doesn't want to think about what that means, but it keeps coming to the forefront of his mind: no nightlight means the presence can't be kept away and he has a bad feeling it would not be appreciative of his attempts to repel it.

The evening is spent in a candlelit, anxiety-steeped haze, and bedtime only brings more dread. Fear and apprehension mount in his mind as he enters his room. The darkness is only slightly dispelled by the dull glow of his flashlight. The batteries are running dry and it flickers as he dresses for bed. By the time he climbs in, the light has grown so dim he can barely see. He settles down on his side and holds the failing flashlight near his face; it lasts one final sweep of the room before sputtering out, leaving him in complete darkness. With a shuddering sigh, he places it on the nightstand. He lies back down, stiffly immobile, with his eyes clenched shut and muscles tensed. The anxiety and anticipation nearly make him sick.

When the hand touches his hip, he curls into himself and wines in fear, trying to keep his breathing under control. There's a chuckle in his ear and that voice returns, whispering just as softly as it did a few nights ago, "Why have you been keeping me away? You seemed to enjoy my last visit . . ."

He shakes his head against the pillow in denial.

"No? Well, I'll just have to remind you."

With more frantic shaking of his head, he realizes he is able to move. Just as he starts to shift – to get away – an arm slides under his shoulder and wraps around his chest.

"Just because I permit you to move does not mean you can escape."

He still struggles because he's not going to just sit there and let it happen again. Not when he can do something about it this time, but the fingers dig into his hip and the arm tightens and he's pulled back, back against a warm body. A tangible body. Fear wells up inside him and his struggles gain strength.

The hand on his hip slides down to palm him through his pants, causing all movement to cease. His heavy breathing hitches and he lets out a choked sob, which he immediately tries to stifle.

"What did I say about making noise last time? You're surely going to wake everyone up. I've allowed you to speak, but do try and keep quiet."

"Please . . ." His voice is a shattered whisper.

"'Please' what? That could mean many things." In contrast, the presence’s voice is utterly calm and under control, with just a hint of teasing superiority.

"No. Please no. No, no . . ."

"But you offered yourself to me," it states flatly. "'This is for you,' you said. You cannot rescind that offer now."

His whimper of fear is broken off when the hand squeezes and sends a surge of pleasure through his body. The tips of the fingers slip inside his waistband and glide up to his hip before gripping the material of his pants and pulling them down. The other hand slips under his shirt and pushes it up, splaying across his chest to keep it rucked up. The first hand skims over his exposed stomach before descending and wrapping around his length, sliding up it slowly. His own hands twist in the sheets and he smothers a moan into them as a thumb sweeps over his head.

He feels the laugh vibrating through the chest at his back more than he hears it. "Still so desperate."

"I-I'm not," he manages, ending with a gasp as the hand jerks down.

"Really, now? Do you take me for a fool?"

The hand grasps his thigh and pulls it up near his chest, where the other hand holds it to keep it in place. His breathing quickens and fear blares through his entire system. A finger traces his entrance and his eyes snap open. His flails his arms, hoping to hit something, anything, but he hits _nothing_ , though the body is still at his back. The finger is removed, only for its hand to capture his wrists and pin them to the mattress. His hands are near his face and he can see the shadows that encircle his wrists; they form the distinct shape of a hand. He can also see the faint outline of an arm, still shadow, yet darker than the blackness of his room. His hands are trapped, he is trapped, but he needs to get away, get away!

"Shhh, calm yourself. If you really don't want me to then I respect your wishes, but I will only hold back for so long."

He supposes that is meant to be reassuring, but his struggles only become more violent until he suddenly cannot move at all.

"I'm sorry, but you left me no choice. You really should learn to control yourself better. I said I wouldn't hurt you."

"You said you wouldn't hurt me _now_." His voice sounds broken and wrecked to his own ears.

"Of course, I do plan to take you in the future, but trust me when I saw it will not _hurt_ you."

The hands release his wrists and leg, moving the latter back down to a normal resting position. Both arms wrap around his torso and hold him tightly. He can only stare, wide-eyed, into the darkness of his room and attempt to control his breathing. He's on the edge of a panic attack and the only thing holding it off is the same things causing it: the words spoken by the presence. It said it would stop when he asked, which calmed him, but there was also that implication, that disturbing implication. What could possibly happen to him that would cause him to consent to this?

He doesn't want to think about that. He doesn't want to imagine the touches in the darkness that force thing upon him. He doesn't want to dwell on the shame he feels from deriving pleasure from it. But he can't block any of it out through his panic. It is all too much and

his mind

shuts

down.


	3. Eyes on Fire

He’s never been happier to be woken up by the band of sunlight that falls directly across his pillow every morning. The events of the previous night seriously disturbed him and he tries to put it all together through his daze. Once he knows the power is back on, he’s able to pull himself together and he grounds himself in the use of the nightlight – the nightlight can repel the dark, the nightlight will protect him, the nightlight, the nightlight, the nightlight. Even with it, he’s still fearful and uneasy at night, but he’s much better with it than he was without.

During the next several nights, he is soothed by the humming glow, the watts of electricity that chase the shadows away, but he struggles to fall asleep. His mind races with thoughts of the encounter, specifically the fact of the presence stopping when he protested. Consent wasn’t a luxury granted the first time and he wonders what made this second incident different. It’s clear the presence could overpower him, yet it listened to him.

He knows it is irrational, but he wants to speak with it again.

Over the course of a fortnight, he thinks things over. Every night, he lies in bed and stares at the wall where his nightlight is plugged in, debating the merit of initiating contact; it’s startlingly similar to his situation on the first evening, before this started. He’s no less sure of his actions and equally as frightened as he was then, but he is more motivated to acquire answers.

One night, when he is particularly restless, he finally crawls out of bed and approaches the wall. The nightlight is the only illumination, the only thing keeping the presence away. Despite the pounding of his heart, he reaches out and pulls it out of the socket, plunging the room into darkness.

He turns to take a step toward his bed and walks directly into a solid wall of shadow. Arms wrap around him and hold him against a warm chest. Hot breath against his ear heralds the murmured, “Are you ready now?”

Panic rises within him and he strives to keep it under control. He pushes weakly against the body, but the arms constrict, crushing him further.

“N-no, I want to talk to you. Just talk.”

“Is that so? Quite intriguing.”

The arms loosen, allowing him to pull back slightly, but they still drape over his shoulders – prepared to reel him back in. “I just . . . have a question. Why did . . . you stop last night? When I asked?”

The laugh that follows his question is slightly condescending, yet not in an offensive way. One arm lifts off his shoulder to stroke a hand through his hair and cup his face. “It’s _because_ you asked, my dear boy. I prefer consent from my conquests.”

He inhales sharply and his fear spikes. “But the first time . . . there wasn’t –”

“‘This is for you’ sounds like consent to me.”

He stiffens at the words and the thumb brushing over his cheek. The hand tilts his face up and lips cover his own. He tries to push away, but the arm around his shoulder tightens to prevent it. His eyes are wide and staring and all he can see is the blackness, where there is nothing, yet it’s touching him and surrounding him and it’s everywhere! The nightlight is still in his grasp, but he can’t get away to plug it back in and he feels so _helpless_.

His mouth is freed and he gasps for air, heart racing. The hand on his face moves back to his hair.

“Sshhh. There’s no need to panic. Calm down.”

That’s much easier said than done. Terror washes over him in waves and nearly overwhelms him. Through it all, he manages, “No . . . that’s not what I meant.”

“What else could that possibly suggest? It seemed rather clear to me.”

“It-it was supposed to keep you away.”

“Well, it’s obvious that didn’t work. And, I must say, now that I’m interested I don’t think I’ll be abandoning you any time soon.”

He feels his knees go weak and the only thing keeping him up is the arm braced around his back. The hand runs through his hair and the voice whispers soothing words into his ear. He wants to block them both out. He wants to block it all out.

The presence has no intention of leaving. He’s invited it to stay and do those things to him – it is all his fault. He brought this upon himself.

His back touches soft padding and he realizes he’s being laid down on his bed. He wasn’t even aware of being picked up or moved and panic crashes down on him again. He lashes out, but his limbs connect with nothing and he’s left struggling uselessly against the shadows.

The presence is silent as it waits for him to tire himself out. It takes a far shorter time than he likes before he’s completely exerted himself and must lie still. When the only sound is his heavy breathing, the presence begins to speak, “As I said before, I will not do anything you do not consent to, but I fully intend to gain that consent. You may not be comfortable in my presence now, but you will be . . . eventually, you will be . . .”

His breathing still hasn’t calmed and he curls into himself. He clasps the nightlight between his hands and holds it to his chest.

“And, to accomplish that, I’ll be taking this.”

Fingers pry at and unclench his own, pulling the nightlight from his grasp. Terror surges through his system and he launches himself at the dark silhouette. Hands catch his upper arms, stopping his lunge and restricting his movement. They force him back down and he fights back, straining against them.

The presence is stronger and he realizes there is nothing he can do; his last line of defense has just been taken away. Still, he struggles and tries to scream, tries to call for help, but he has no voice, just like the first night.

The arms slide securely around his back and he’s brought up to be held against a chest. Circles are rubbed onto his back to comfort him, but he is far past the effectiveness of such a gesture.

Staring and not seeing anything is far too unnerving, so he squeezes his eyes shut against the darkness. No longer straining to see, his other senses go into overdrive. He can hear his blood rushing in his ears and feel each individual finger moving over his back. In an effort not to be overwhelmed by the sensations, he focuses on controlling his breathing.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

Once his breathing evens out, he’s lowered back down, though the arms hold him securely. The mattress dips and a body settles next to him, sparking a flash of panic.

“Sshhh. I’m not going to do anything, just lie with you.”

The fingers threading through his hair do little to soothe him, but he wills himself to calm down. It’s the only way he can come out of this sane, which he very much wants to do.

Breathing steadies, heartbeat slows, panic calms, minutes pass. The presence seems content to simply hold him. For now, at least, but this, this is . . . tolerable. Obviously, he would prefer nothing to be happening at all, but he doesn’t much mind the passiveness of the immediate situation, especially compared to the previous encounters. He can handle this; he can, possibly, enjoy this. The embrace is warm and the hand in his hair is reassuring, though he can’t say exactly why. He’s tired and comfortable and it’s not long before

he

drifts

off.


	4. Dark in My Imagination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's one thing to keep in mind about this chapter, it is Chekhov's gun.

Waking is a relief. The brightness affords him the mental clarity he needs to think about the previous night. Out of all his encounters with the presence, it was the mildest, making it the most acceptable as well. He’s still disturbed by the presence’s lack of understanding of consent and determination to gain some semblance of it from him. He’s sure its interpretation of consent is drastically different from his own; whenever the presence believes it has obtained consent will undoubtedly be different from when he actually grants it.

That brings all thought process to a halt. That implies he is planning on consenting. He reminds himself that the presence took the nightlight in an effort to coerce and manipulate him. He was foolish to remove it in the first place, but having it appropriated from him makes his anxieties that much worse, especially when the act was carried out by what it was intended to keep away.

As it gets darker, he wonders what he is going to do without the nightlight. The latest interaction was tamer than the others, but he doesn't want to encourage more. The only substitute seems to be the lamp beside his bed. He turns it on and it stays lit into the night. He barely sleeps, both because it is too bright, and because he is too anxious. His mind races and he questions the motives behind the presence’s actions. He evaluates his own as well.

He’s jerked out of a half sleep by the chirping of birds directly outside his window. The sun is just rising, its light creeping slowly toward his pillow. Accepting that there’s no more sleep to be had, he untangles the sheets twisted around his body from his restless tossing and turning, and stumbles out of his room to prepare for the day. In his daze of lingering fatigue, he doesn't notice that the lamp beside his bed remains lit.

His exhaustion stays with him all day, skewing his concentration and slowing his reflexes. On his walk home, a man exits the convenience store on the corner just as he walks by. He’s unable to avoid bumping into the man and mumbles an apology as he stumbles back.

“Watch it, kid,” the man sneers at him, his voice rough and scratchy. Lights the cigarette in his hand, the man shoves past him and stalks away.

The encounter is pushed to the back of his mind when he’s getting ready for bed that night. He attempts to turn on the lamp beside his bed, but a click of the switch changes nothing. Another click also brings nothing. Again – nothing. Frantic checking reveals the lamp is plugged in and he knows the power is on, so what is causing this?! He doesn’t understand and he needs the light to keep him safe – the bulb, he realizes abruptly. He doesn’t recall turning it off when he awoke; the thing must have burnt out during the day. How could he be so stupid!

He knows the answer to that: he was tired, far too tired to function properly. There’s nothing he can do now except turn the main light on, but it would be too bright for him to fall asleep to and sleep is something he _desperately_ needs. He remembers how easily he fell asleep with the presence the other night and the thought terrifies him.

He stubbornly leaves the light on and lies in bed. It is much worse than the lamp, blaring at him from overhead and forbidding him rest.

He fights a war within himself. As much as he wants to sleep, he doesn’t want another encounter with the presence. If he can last just this one night, he can get a replacement light bulb so the lamp can be used again – but even the lamp doesn’t allow him proper sleep. Is this what the rest of his life is going to be like? Never getting adequate sleep and constantly living in fear? He wasn’t able to function after one night of disruption; he doesn’t want to see what another would look like, never mind a lifetime.

He sits up in the bed and swings his legs over the side. His heart thumps in his chest, but his eyes are blank as he approaches the light switch near his door. Raising his leaden arm and pressing numb fingertips to cool plastic, he flicks down.

Hands are immediately grasping at his shoulders, sliding up his neck, smoothing over his face, running through his hair. He makes no move to stop them; by now he knows it would be a useless endeavor. The hands move to gently grasp his own, turning him away from the switch and tugging lightly to pull him toward the bed. Once he’s kneeling on the mattress, his hands are released and his arms hang limply at his sides. He’s distantly aware of the presence in front of him.

He wants to rouse himself from his catatonic state, but he can’t bring himself to care enough to make the effort. It is simultaneously terrifying and reassuring; anything could happen and he wouldn’t be motivated to attempt to stop it, but he feels nothing could cause him to react anyway.

The voice speaks, hypnotic and compelling. “There’s no need to be afraid. Just let go of your fear.”

He scarcely has to think and his mind is opening, emptying him of all concerns, doubts, fears, leaving behind the barest hint of a hollow feeling.

“There you go, that’s it,” he’s told as he’s pushed into a reclining position. He just lets it happen; he doesn’t even mind that the presence is looming over him. “Isn’t this much better than struggling and resisting? It’s far more enjoyable, and I promise it can only get more so.”

There’s the pressure of a hand on his stomach, fingers kneading into the soft flesh, working their way to the hem of his pants, which are yanked down once reached. Uncovered like this, fear begins to trickle in through the cracks. He lifts his arms to cover himself, to make everything stop, but they are pushed back to his sides and he is hushed. One hand irons out the wrinkles of distress on his forehead and the other circles his length.

All will, all hope, is lost. He lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and relaxes fully. The presence hums in approval and beings to stroke him. A moan slips past his lips.

“Good, that’s it, just feel it, just let it happen.”

It’s impossible to ignore the steady stroking and he arches his back and sighs in pleasure. He grabs fistfuls of the sheets near his hips to ground himself; the presence’s other hand on his knee helps with that. As that hand slides up his leg, the hand on his cock moves to the opposite leg. They grip his thighs, pulling them farther apart. He tenses at the sudden exposure and tries to close his legs, but the grip is firm and unrelenting. His thoughts of half-formed protests are scattered at the tongue’s burning touch. It trails up his length, drawing a high-pitched keen from the back of his throat. His hands clench into fists.

His breathing becomes labored when the tongue finally reaches the head and drags lazily across it. The tongue continues to wander, leaving behind a path of impossible heat, and then it’s gone. Unconsciously, his hips try to chase it, pushing upwards blindly, but the hands on his thighs hold him down, squeezing reassuringly.

Lips press an open mouthed kiss to his tip before wrapping around his cock and sliding down. He gasps at the heat engulfing his length, barely able to stand it. Glancing down, he sees where the shadows clutch his thighs and the dark outline of arms that lead to sloping shoulders. Between those shoulders is a bowed head, which he can make out quite clearly against the backdrop of his pale skin. He watches, entranced, as the head moves up and down, wanting to latch his fingers onto it instead of the sheets, but resists as he knows his hands would only pass through it.

The next time the head descends, it is accompanied by intense sucking. His eyes flutter shut and his own head drops back as the suction continues until the mouth reaches the base of his cock. Out of instinct, his hands reach out for something to grip onto and surprisingly find purchase on either side of a skull. There is warm skin and coarse hair under his fingertips and he can feel as the head slowly moves up.

He whines at the loss of heat, tugging at the hair to encourage the mouth to cover him again. It quickly complies, companioned by a swirling tongue, causing his back to arch and his toes to curl. His entire length is swallowed and the presence hums, sending vibrations of pleasure through his body. His muscles clench and his eyes roll back and there is a familiar tightness in his lower belly that coils further as the pace increases. His arms follow the head as it bobs up and down and he digs his fingers harder into the hair. The hands holding his thighs slip underneath them to lift his lower body as his hips stutter upward in aborted attempts to match the movement of the bobbing head.

A swallow around his length while surrounded by the heat sends him over the edge and he throws his head back, attempting to hold back his cry. The heat remains throughout his coming, despite his feeble attempts to pull the head off. His arms feel weak and his fingers lose their grip, slipping through strands of hair to fall bonelessly at his sides.

The mouth pulls off him, but he’s too exhausted to react with more than a gasp and a shudder. Lips press against his hips and languidly make their way up his torso, causing his stomach muscles to jump. Hands skim up his sides and clasp onto either side of his head before the lips detach themselves from his sternum to connect with his. He can taste the lingering flavor of himself on the tongue that pushes into his mouth.

The body resettles next to him, rolling him onto his side and deepening the kiss. One hand remains on the side of his face and the other slides around his back to gather him closer to its body. He whimpers as the presence gently sucks and bites his bottom lip before pulling away. It tucks his head under its shadowy chin and sighs; the warm breath ruffles his hair.

Cautiously, he brings a hand up, hesitating when his fingers brush against fabric. After a moment, he continues and the material gives way to warm skin. He jerks his hand back, worried his sudden exploring and touch may have upset the presence in some way, but he receives no negative reaction. He receives no reaction at all, except perhaps the slight rigidity the presence’s frame seems to have acquired. A frame he can now touch. He marvels at that fact and decides he should take advantage of the opportunity to possibly discover what the presence is.

Slowly, he moves his hand forward until it touches skin again. The texture is just like human skin, though the temperature is slighter higher. He spreads his fingers until they touch the fabric again. It’s coarse and slightly stiff, but like nothing he’s ever felt before. He grips onto it, feeling anchored and secured. He really is anything but, yet it helps him calm down enough to

slip

into

unconsciousness.


	5. Gorgeous Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like I said before, this is my first time writing smut, so I would really appreciate it if this chapter specifically could get some feedback. I'm pretty nervous about it and I want to make sure I'm going a good job!

He wakes up with his hand still clenched around something. As he blinks away his bleariness, he realizes it’s not the fabric he fell asleep holding onto. His palm cradles smooth plastic and his fingers wrap around a more angular part with two prongs of cool metal resting against his pinky. It’s his nightlight.

He stares at it, wondering why it was returned to him. The presence took the nightlight to prevent him from keeping it away, but surely it expects him to use the nightlight now that he has it back. If it is so intent on . . . having him, what does it hope to accomplish with this?

Perhaps it is some kind of test. The presence doesn’t like to be kept away, so it has given him the very thing that is capable of doing just that to see if he will use it. He supposes he’ll pass the test by not plugging in the nightlight, but that would be an indication of his willingness to submit himself to the presence, something he’s not so sure about. He knows he should want to never deal with the presence again, should want to plug in the nightlight and be done with it all, but despite everything that has happened there’s a part of him that finds the presence intriguing. It’s had an interest in him for nearly his whole life, something no one else has bothered to have. Having the nightlight back grants him some power over the situation and he likes that; he can decide if the presence will visit him or not. It’s for this reason that he lets night fall without plugging the device in. He’s not doing it to show the presence he’s willing, but to show he has a choice.

When he turns the light off, he anticipates being besieged right away, but he is left untouched. The fact that he is unnerved by this unnerves him further. Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he contemplates the disconcerting mindset he seems to be slipping into lately. Why is he doing this? Why is he allowing this to happen? Becoming used to the presence and its actions is exactly what he feared happening, yet he automatically thinks in those terms. He should have plugged the nightlight in after all, he should–

A hand touches his cheek, bringing him abruptly out of his thoughts. His heart hammers in his chest as the other hand cups the back of his head and tilts it up. The hand on his cheek strokes his face as the voice says, “You left the nightlight unplugged.”

He can only nod his head in agreement and stare. As before, the presence’s dark outline is visible, but now its features are defined enough for him to discern the faint glimmer of eyes, the sharp line of a nose, and the slight curve of a satisfied smile on its lips. He manages to find his voice and whisper, “T-tonight, at least.”

“Good, very good,” the voice practically purrs. The intensity of the moment sends a shudder through his body and he has to close his eyes. The hand on the back of his head slides to grip his shoulder and gently push him down. His mind is blank again and he can’t resist. Once he’s sprawled on his back on the mattress, the presence leans over him and presses its cheek against his to whisper directly into his ear, “You deserve to be rewarded.”

Both hands are now pulling his pants down his legs, which still dangle over the side of the bed. He swallows dryly when the hands lift his legs and bend them to place his feet on the mattress. There are no illusions about what is about to happen.

“Wait –”

“Shh. I’ve got you.” One hand leaves his leg to pet his face gently before digging fingers into his hair and pulling his head back. Kisses are laid along his exposed neck as fingers slide up his leg and trace the crease of his thigh. He bites his lip as they wrap around his cock. The mouth moves up along his jaw to suck at the spot just behind his ear as the hand begins to stroke. He feels himself getting hard under the presence’s ministrations.

Just as he’s getting into it, the hand is removed, only for a finger to press tentatively against his entrance, causing him to inhale sharply. His hands shoot up and grasp the presence’s shoulders. Its mouth moves up from his neck to graze over his face to meet his lips. Focusing on the kiss, tension is released from his muscles and melts away. The finger presses again and he tries to remain relaxed.

He’s never done anything like this before, but he knows it’s supposed to hurt, so when the finger slips in smoothly with minimal pain he’s surprised and relieved. He reasons that since the presence seems to be made out of shadow it is not affected by friction in the way a normal body would be.

The finger slides out and then back in, creating sensations that walk the border between uncomfortable and pleasurable. The kissing helps to place things more on the side of pleasure, so he begins to panic again when the presence pulls away from his mouth. He digs his nails into its shoulders and his eyes frantically search the darkness around him.

“I’m right here,” the voice reassures him. A final kiss is placed on his forehead before the presence straightens up. It can only get so far with his fingers still clamped to its shoulders, but the shift is enough to change the angle of the finger inside him. He gasps. The new angle is much better, but the finger pulls all the way out after only a few strokes and he whines in disappointment. It soon enters him again, accompanied by a second finger. This time, there is a twinge of pain from the burn of the stretch, but it is still manageable. The fingers curl upward as they slide in and touch a _spot_ inside him that causes him to sees stars. One of his feet slips off the side of the mattress as he spasms and arches his back.

He’s only aware of the fingers pushing against him as they move in and out. Every few thrusts, they will brush that spot again and it’s not long before he’s panting in need.

The presence is directly over him again as it whispers, “I trust you know what’s coming.”

He whimpers. Gripping the presence’s shoulders more tightly, he resolutely nods his head. The fingers flick across that spot inside him once more and withdraw completely. His dangling leg is seized and pushed up near his chest, an arm hooking around his knee and bracing against the bed. He feels the pressure of something much bigger than the fingers against his entrance and he has to take a deep breath to steady himself.

As the presence presses into him, he feels more pain than before. It’s not unbearable, but it’s hard to keep relaxed through. Concentrating on his breathing helps, as does the hand now stroking his cock.

The sensation of being filled is a strange mix of pain and pleasure and, like before, the presence ensures he experiences the pleasure more. It enters him slowly, giving him time to adjust. Once fully inside of him, the presence leans down and rests its forehead against his. The hand on his cock stills as the presences breathes heavily.

For several moments, it remains like that and he is struck by the intimacy of the moment. Then the presence begins to move and he's distracted by the slow slide inside. It feels incredible. All he can do is gasp and shudder and cling to the fabric still covering the presence’s back. A moan is smothered into his neck and the sheets under his shoulder are tugged as the presence twists them in its hand.

After a few unhurried thrusts, the pace picks up, increasing the intensity of the sensations. His head drops back and his mouth falls open in a silent scream. The presence’s lips move to attack the newly exposed skin hungrily. He feels like he’s drowning, like he can’t get enough air, like he won’t be able to make it back to the surface. The hand on his cock resuming its stoking only pulls him under further. The presence matches the stroking and its thrusts, changing the angle slightly, so the next thrust hits that spot again.

He can’t stop the strangled cry that escapes his throat. The lips against his neck curl into a smirk, even as he feels the rapid breaths that puff against his skin. The spot is met directly with every thrust, sending an explosion of pleasure through his body each time. It’s overwhelming and he’s drowning again, but if this is what drowning is like he doesn’t want to come up for air. He can’t draw another breath before he’s coming. He chokes on his breathless scream as teeth sink into his neck and the presence comes in time with own orgasm.

His breathing is slow to even out and his arms slip off the presence’s shoulders, unable to hold themselves up any longer. The presence finally pulls its mouth away from his neck and moves to kiss him instead. He can taste the tang of blood; that bite must have broken the skin. His leg is released and he lets both fall over the edge of the mattress. The presence braces its arms on either side of his head, deepening the kiss. He’s so worn out that he can barely reciprocate, but that doesn’t seem to matter to the presence; it controls the kiss anyway.

During the kiss, the presence pulls out of him and he whimpers into its mouth at the strange sensation. Just as the kiss starts to become too much, it ends and the presence shifts both their positions so he is lying on his side with the presence holding him from behind. He likes the feeling of the arms encircling him and holding him close. Lips press against the still-bleeding bite mark and he shivers. A tongue soothes over it, almost as if in apology.

He is exhausted, but it’s a different kind of exhaustion than the other day. It leaves him sated and content and

sleep

comes

quickly.


	6. Pet

In the morning, he is alone. He knows he shouldn’t feel disappointed, yet he can’t help but be. Though he's still unnerved, he now feels like he has nothing real to fear. He can keep the presence away if needed and, well, if encounters continue to be like last night’s he’s not complaining.

There, he finally admitted it. He no longer cares that he now welcomes the very thing he didn’t want in the beginning. Now that he’s let it happen, let the presence in, it really isn’t so bad. Besides, for the first time in a long time, he isn’t tired. He hasn’t felt this well rested since even before the visits. Deciding to take full advantage of that, he heads out to run the errands his fatigue prevented him from completing the other day.

The entire time he is out, he’s light and happy. There isn’t any anxiety or exhaustion weighing him down, no need to jump at every dark shadow or whisper of touch against his skin. It’s glorious to be able to relax enough to actually enjoy himself. Maybe befriending the presence wasn’t that bad of an idea, if things were going to be like this from now on. He could most certainly get used to it.

It’s not until evening is rapidly falling that he finally heads home. He’s caught up in the anticipation of seeing the presence again tonight, but this time he’s aware enough to move out of the way of the door to the convenience store as it opens. A mother is struggling to control her two young children while juggling several bags of groceries, so he rushes forward to hold the door. She gives him a grateful smile and tugs her charges along. He glances inside and catches a glimpse of the freezers in the back. It reminds him that there’s only a little milk left in the carton at home.

The store is empty except for the cashier, to whom he shoots a smile at before heading toward the freezers. There’s one half-gallon of 2% left, but it’s stuck on the rollers in the far back, so he has to crouch down and stick his arm all the way in to reach it.

As his fingers fumble to grasp the handle, the bell rings, signaling the arrival of another customer. He doesn’t pay much attention to it until he hears the sound of a gun cocking. His entire body freezes and his heart pounds in his chest.

“Hand the money over, bitch,” a rough and scratchy voice growls, “and get me a pack of those Camels while you’re at it. No not those! The other ones. Stupid bitch.” That voice, he knows that voice, if only he could think from where.

The clicking of a lighter draws him back into the present and he slowly withdraws his arm from the freezer, easing the door shut. Despite his efforts to close the door as the cash register opens, it bumps shut during a moment of silence.

“Who’s there?! Come out from where ever you’re hiding. I’ve got a gun!” The voice is still familiar, even with the edge of hysteria.

He decides it’s best to comply and slowly steps around the shelf. A cigarette is dangling from the gunman’s lips, but a ski mask obscures all other facial features. He can’t identify him, but apparently the gunman recognizes him.

“You! You’re that kid who ran into me the other day. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. I –”

The gunman is cut off as the cashier takes advantage of his distraction and launches herself over the counter, tackling the gunman to the floor and straddling his back.

“Call the police!” she shrieks. The gunman is already recovering and lifting the gun to aim at – him! He frantically looks around and sees the open bathroom door. It’s his best bet and he makes a break for it. The gun fires twice before he slams the door shut, throwing the room into darkness. There are sounds of a scuffle outside and he digs in his pocket for his cell phone.

A hand grabs his searching arm to halt his movement. The other hand finds his face, the thumb brushing across his cheek reassuringly. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Despite the comforting gesture, there is a note of panic in the presence’s voice.

“Out there. The guy with a gun,” he gasps out. “That cashier’s in trouble, I need to –”

“You’re injured.” Its tone is cold and deceptively calm. He can see its eyes narrow in anger.

He opens his mouth to retort, to say he didn’t feel the bullets hit him, but an acute pain makes itself known in his upper arm. He places his hand over the area, right above the presence’s grip, and feels a slight tear in his shirt, the fabric around it saturated with sticky wetness. His eyes widen and his panic swells. Caught up in a rush of adrenaline, he must not have felt the bullet graze his arm.

“Who did this?!” The presence shakes him slightly, making him wince, both at the action jostling his arm and the demanding tone. “Tell me who it was.”

“Th-the gunman. He’s still out there. I have to call for help.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Switching its hold to his shoulders, the presence guides him to the other side of the room and gently pushes him into a sitting position on the floor. Tendrils of darker shadow writhe on the wall before slipping under the door. There are faint popping sounds and the scant light that illuminates the cracks around the door extinguishes.

“What the hell?” the gunman shouts. “What was that? Show yourself!” There’s a pause where only the faint, terrified crying of the cashier can be heard. Then the gunman snarls in frustration and fires the gun three times, the shots cutting through the near silence and leaving a ringing in the air. “I said to show yourself, coward!”

He’s worried for the cashier, worried that those weren’t warning shots, and he knows he has to do something. The presence didn’t tell him to stay there – not that he would listen to it even if it did – so he cracks open the door with his good arm, leaving a bloody smear on the doorknob, and peers out. Over the tops of the shelves, he can just barely make out the gunman turning on the spot with the gun held out, but he can’t see the cashier. He desperately hopes that it’s not because she’s crumpled on the floor, in pain, in a puddle of her own blood . . .

A shifting of the shadows diverts his attention. They curl and contort on the walls and he swears he can hear them hissing. Near the gunman, the presence rises up from the floor, shadows piling on top of one another and taking on a humanoid shape. Its height dwarfs the gunman, who doesn’t even see it coming.

“Was it you.” The presence’s voice is a deadly calm monotone.

The gunman spins around and immediately fires the gun. After five shots, his pistol clicks uselessly and he stares at the completely unaffected presence in horror.

“Are you the one who hurt him.” The way the presence says those words makes it clear it’s not a question; it’s a demand for confirmation.

“What are you!” the gunman shrieks, voice hoarse and filled with terror. The presence takes calculated steps towards the gunman, who matches each one with a step back.

“You haven’t answered me.”

“Take whatever you want! Just don’t hurt me.”

“I’m going to take that as a ‘yes,’ then. And since that appears to be your answer, I won’t be able to honor your last request.”

The gunman screams and makes to run, but everything freezes mid-step.

There’s no indication of what caused the gunman’s sudden paralysis, so he moves away from the bathroom to get a closer look. The cigarette falls from the gunman’s mouth, followed by a droplet of liquid that lands with a soft _plip_ , which escalates to a steady dripping. A single droplet lands on the white paper of the cigarette, staining it red. From behind the shelves, his eyes widen in horror as he realizes the gunman’s body is impaled on spikes of shadow and those red droplets are blood from the puncture wounds, so many puncture wounds all over the gunman’s body –

The gunman makes a gurgling sound and blood sprays from his mouth as he coughs. The shadows withdraw with a swift snick and the body hits the ground in a sickening squelch.

He gags and his hands fly to cover his mouth. The flare of pain in his arm, the presence sweeping across the store to him, the metallic scent of blood, the retching of the cashier, the taste of bile in his own throat – it’s all muted and stuffy in the back ground. He’s too preoccupied with the floor rushing-up-to-meet-him.


	7. Whispers in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. Finally finished. This chapter is approximately twice as long as most of the other ones. _dies_ I don't know if I'm 100% satisfied with it, but that could also just be writer-hating-their-own-work syndrome, so I guess it's up to you guys to let me know if it is a sufficient ending. Speaking of you guys, thank you so much to everyone who left a comment or gave this story Kudos! It gave me the confidence I needed to actually write and post some smut. I have a couple other BlackIce stories planned, so stayed tuned for more!
> 
> A huge thank you goes to [Hikari199111](http://hikari199111.tumblr.com), my amazing beta! She knows exactly how to twist my words so things don't sound so awkward and everything she suggests is beautiful. She can be found under that name here and on Tumblr and everyone should go check her out!

It’s still evening when he comes to. The convenience store itself is bright, the headlights of an ambulance shining through the front windows, but he can see the encroaching darkness of the sky beyond. An EMT kneels over him, fingers pressed to the pulse in his neck. Once she realizes he’s awake, she begins to ask him questions about his condition and medical history. He answers as best he can, but it’s a blur and the next thing he knows she’s saying he’ll be free to go once he’s patched up and has talked to the police about what happened.

She leads him out to the back of the ambulance. The cashier is already there, an orange blanket wrapped around her shoulders, talking softly to another EMT. As the EMT who brought him over helps him up into the ambulance, a police cruiser pulls up and the other EMT leaves to go meet the officers.

He’s forced to sit through a full examination, during which he reviews what happened in his mind. It was . . . terrifying, to say the least. He knew the presence was dangerous, but not to this extent, not this _kind_ of dangerous. He didn’t think it would kill people. More specifically, kill them _for_ him. Perhaps he made a mistake trusting and feeling safe around the presence.

The EMT wraps a bandage around his upper arm, drawing his attention to the injury. While all his thoughts are true, the reason the presence became so furious was because he was wounded. He knows it wouldn’t hurt him, so _he_ had no reason to fear. As for other people, he knows it’s selfish of him, but he’s far too shaken up to manage being concerned with what could happen to those “other people” at the moment.

The gauze is secured with medical tape and the EMT says he can leave once he talks with a police officer. He sits next to the cashier on the bumper and a matching orange blanket is draped over his shoulders.

“For shock,” the EMT explains before leaving to bring the officer over.

The cashier looks remarkably calm for experiencing what she did. Under the blanket, he can see that an entire side of her clothing is red, soaked through with blood. She doesn’t appear to be injured, so she must have been lying on the floor, near the man when . . . when . . .

She turns and smiles weakly at him, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, which remain hollow. He returns the smile, knowing his is just as empty. He’s about to ask her how she’s feeling when the EMT returns with the police officer.

“You two are the only witnesses?” he asks. At their nods, he continues, “If you follow me, I’m just going to ask you a few questions.”

As they head towards the store front, the other EMT and officer wheel a black body bag out the door on a stretcher. He swallows hard and, out of the corner of his eye, sees the cashier pull the blanket tighter around herself. The officer leads them inside once it has passed.

“Now, I would like you both to describe what happened when the gunman first entered the shop.”

They begin the tedious process of explaining and reenacting, the officer interrupting with a few clarifying questions every now and then. When he gets to the part about hiding in the bathroom, the officer goes over and flicks the switch, surprisingly turning the light on, revealing nothing out of the ordinary besides a blood-smeared doorknob.

“You said the lights went out while you were in here?”

“Yeah, but I never turned this light on.”

The police officer looks at the light curiously, but turns it off and asks him to continue.

“I was about to call the police when the gunman started yelling something, but was cut off. I thought maybe the cashier had done something, so I looked out. It was too dark to really see anything, so I tried to get closer. And that’s when I saw the gunman just . . . lying there, in-in –” he trails off. He can’t even think of what happened; there’s no way he’s going to be able to say it.

“Okay, that’s fine. What about you?”

The cashier takes a deep breath before speaking. “I grappled with the gunman for a bit; I may not look like much, but my mother made sure I would always be able to defend myself. He punched me in the stomach and it knocked the wind out of me, but before he could do anything, the lights went out. He kept asking who was there and he sounded really freaked out. He seemed to think someone was there and he shot at them, but then everything just stopped and he fell to the floor. I felt the side of my clothes getting wet . . . and realized it was blood. Then I heard _him_ fall, from seeing it, I suppose, and knew that I had to call –”

“So you have no idea what caused the gunman to collapse like that?” the officer cut her off.

They both shake their heads.

“Do you know about his injuries? Let me tell you: puncture wounds, straight through, all over his body – like he fell into a pit of spikes. If you have any idea what could cause wounds like that . . . Was there a fourth person in the store?”

More head shaking.

“Even if there was, officer,” the cashier begins, “we wouldn’t have been able to see them. It was too dark. The cameras might have –”

“The cameras stopped recording when the lights went out.”

“But that’s impossible! They’re connected to a completely different system from the lights, with a backup power source that keeps them recording in case of a black out.”

“I know. What about the light in the bathroom?”

“I not sure, but I think it’s on the same circuit as the rest of the lights.”

“So, logically, it should have gone out with the others. As of right now, we suspect some sort of vandalism that rigged the cameras to stop recording and the lights to blow out, but that should have included the one in bathroom. It may not seem important, but we have to consider every detail significant.”

The officer asks them a few more neutral questions and tells the cashier her clothing is needed as evidence. While the EMTs bring her to the ambulance to change into a pair of spare scrubs, the officer takes down his information and says he’s free to go.

He feels bad leaving before checking on the cashier and making sure she’s okay, but he needs to get home and have a serious talk with the presence. Once he’s out of sight of the convenience store, he breaks into a sprint and doesn’t stop until he’s locked his bedroom door behind him. He takes a step, ready to demand the presence come out, but he’s slammed back against the door. A mouth covers his own and moves against it hungrily. The tongue tries to push its way in, but he seals his lips and turns his head away.

“What is wrong with you!”

“What?” The presence sound genuinely surprised at his anger.

“You can’t just _murder_ someone!”

“He hurt you,” it says with a much colder tone and a narrowing of the eyes.

“So? Now he’s dead and I’m in the middle of a police investigation –”

“I don’t care about what happens to anyone else. I’ll kill the police officers as well if they’re making you this agitated.”

“What?” he breathes. Now it’s his turn to be surprised. His breath hitches when the presence places a hand over his eyes.

“If you think we share the same morals, then you must be blind. I decide what I do for myself. I don’t follow your human conventions.”

He shoves the presence off and strides across the room to his bedside table to pick up the nightlight. “You listen to this.”

“Only because it prevents me from gaining proper form. I gave it back to you because I like you, but I can take it away again just as easily.” The presence is right behind him, wrapping around his arms to pin them to his sides. The action presses against his wound and his fingers lose their grip; the nightlight easily slips through them as the presence extracts it from his grasp. With his arms held down, he can’t reach for it before the presence has already moved away. Whirling around, he’s prepared to demand for it back, only for his voice to die in his throat. The presence has the nightlight in a gentle grip, staring at it with a solemnity that seems almost melancholy.

“To think, this is what kept me at bay all those years. I used to curse its very existence . . . but now I can hold it in my hand.” It pauses and looks at him, smiling softly. “I can hold you now, too.” He shivers as it reaches out a hand and cups his cheek tenderly.

“It’s been unplugged for years.”

“You knew I was there. I was waiting for you to invite me.”

And he had. ‘This is for you.’ It wasn’t intended as such, but, as the presence already said, it doesn’t follow human conventions. That clearly includes ethics about murder and he supposes he can’t blame it for being on a different moral spectrum. Seeing that demonstrated right in front of him was traumatizing, but due to the previous years of torment – ironically, also at the hands of the presence– he has a remarkably durable mental state.

Unbidden, he takes a step toward the presence. “Now what?”

“‘Now what’ indeed. You know very well what I want and I believe you want the same, don’t you?” The presence’s smile would have seemed much more dangerous if its words didn’t already have him trembling with anticipation.

He forces himself to focus; there will be time for that later. “We have to set some rules first.”

“Rules?” It looks affronted at the very suggestion. “I already said –”

“Yes, yes. I know what you said. How about you listen to what _I_ have to say?” The presence glares, but remains silent. “You can’t kill people. I don’t care what they’ve done to me or how angry you are – you just can’t kill them.”

He thinks the presence is very much like a petulant child as it bites out, “Fine.”

His breath of laughter is swallowed by a kiss. It is a short dragging of lips over lips, almost as if it was just to quiet him. He laughs again at that thought. “And especially not in front of me.

“Don’t be so quick to think you’ve won. I have a rule of my own: I’m keeping the nightlight.”

He expects to feel a jolt of panic at the added stipulation, but finds that it’s perfectly agreeable to him. “Fine,” he mimics. “I don’t need it anymore.”

The smirk he gets is positively deadly and he’s kissed again, this time with a much different intent. He closes his eyes as the tongue slips into his mouth and slides over his own. A hand sneaks under his shirt to splay across his ribcage, the other moving to the nape of his neck.

Much too soon, he has to pull away from the kiss for air. As he gasps, the presence whispers into his ear, “Now we just have to ‘fulfill the contract’ so to speak.”

Before he can answer, the hand on the back of his neck turns him around and presses him into the wall. The presence is behind him again, this time pushing a knee between his legs while one hand settles on his hip and the other tugs at the bottom of his shirt. He hastily pulls it off, but has to quickly bring his arms up to brace against the wall as teeth latch onto his shoulder. His cry is choked off when the hand on his hip slides into his pants and squeezes him firmly. Coherent thoughts are driven from his mind when the presence begins to stroke him. His knees feel weak and he struggles to remain standing, so he simply rests his forehead against the wall to focus on breathing steadily.

As aroused as he is, it’s not long before his pants become uncomfortably tight and he moves one of his arms from the wall to fumble at the button. The presence, sensing his difficulty, finally releases his shoulder and assists him. He steps out of his pants with a sign of relief and a hum of pleasure as the hand returns. Though it feels good, he wants more, _needs_ more, and pushes back to the presence’s hips. He moans at the hardness he feels there. The presence grinds against him and whispers in his ear, “Spread your legs.”

He whimpers as he steps apart and the presence moves slightly away from him. A finger trails down his side and over the curve of his ass before pressing into him. Standing up, this feels much different. It takes more effort to relax, but he finds it easier as the pleasure builds with the finger’s movement. The addition of another finger brings some pain and he cants his hips in an attempt to bring the digits in contact with that spot inside him. They brush across it and he gasps sharply. The presence changes the angle so it hits the spot directly. Its other hand resumes stroking his cock and he very near collapses right then, but both hands draw away to solidly grip his hips.

Once he’s positioned closer to the wall, one arm wraps around to the opposite hip and the other guides the presence as it enters him. His knees feel weak as he is filled and he leans into the wall, adjusting his arms so it’s more comfortable. Keeping the injured arm close to his chest, he extends the other and bends it so his hand is near his head. The presence’s now free hand comes up and laces their fingers together, holding the position as it catches its breath. He remembers it had to pause before as well and rolls his hips back, a challenge to start moving.

There’s an answering growl in his ear and the presence pulls out and snaps back in. The thrusts are rough and fast and fingers dig into his hip hard enough to bruise. He can feel puffs of hot breath against his ear and twists his head back to seek out the presence’s mouth. The kiss is hungry, making him feeling like he’s being devoured.

Knowing he’s close, he starts pushing back into the thrusts, trying to meet them. The presence, aware of his efforts, breaks the kiss and slows its pace, using the hand on his hip to guide him into a rhythm. Once he’s moving on his own, the hand moves to wrap around his cock. It hardly moves, letting him create the friction.

There’s so much stimulation and it feels so good and he’s so close. The presence moans into his ear and that sends him over the edge. He swears it causes him to black out, as the next thing he’s aware of is being laid down on his mattress and bundled against the presence’s chest. He shudders at the feeling of skin on skin at every point they touch.

The good kind of exhaustion overcomes him again, but he forces himself to stay awake for one more thing.

“Tell me your name.”

There’s a long pause and he’s sure the presence isn’t going to answer.

“Pitch Black.”

The name is unusual, like everything else about the presence.

“My name –”

“I know who you are, Jack Frost. I’ve known who you are for a very long time.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Night Terrors: Post 'The Dark in You'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061979) by [TheGoldenAppleofAsgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard/pseuds/TheGoldenAppleofAsgard)




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